


cast a halo upon your head

by Riana1



Series: a crown for your kingdom come [3]
Category: Guardians of Childhood & Related Fandoms, Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012), Tangled (2010)
Genre: F/M, Gen, I Blame Tumblr, I Will Go Down With This Ship, guardian of the seasons, kitchen sink cosmology, winter&summer rites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 08:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riana1/pseuds/Riana1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>all you can't remember, all you can't forget, but Jack Frost tries, much to his regret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cast a halo upon your head

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to try and get out my massive head canon of book verse, movie verse, and Rise of the Brave Tangled Dragon influence. I am not sure if is more or less depressing than the actual canon.
> 
> Inspired by quigonejinn's Not a Lie (https://archiveofourown.org/works/807769)
> 
> She writes like how I wish I could.
> 
> This might be a series. Maybe.

At the end of the day, you come back home. 

At the back of the wind, you are breathless with exhilaration of frozen fountains and the happy shouts of 'neve, neve' that dogged your every step through the piazzas and parks. You speed up to a free fall to catch the last flare of sunset over the city before shooting down to the alpine treeline below. Home is her; you gleefully crow out "ora e per sempre" to the rushing ground. The vagabonds that you are, home is a nest of evergreens, crooked krummholz, and sideswept cedar curled into the lee of the mountain side, cozy as can be.

You land on your staff and slip down to the ground to drink in the dark. The spill of the city lights across the night gives you vertigo, a match for the wash of stars above your head, even the cyclical slash of the moon matches the glow of the Mole Antonelliana below. You are breathless with an inarticulate awe. Part of you recognizes this, in the she moves against you in her sleep. The part of your heart that recognizes the still point of your turning world.

You take a breath to call out her name- you feel a hand on your shoulder, and you turn.

...

You have gone on never aging, an almost man for this side of a hundred years, frozen in the springtime of your youth (you thank the Groundhog for that phrase sticking in your head by collapsing the cornice of snow on him- you are rather glad you couldn't understand any of the chattering that came after, you might need soap for your ears), but it rings true. You are betwixt and between and rejoice with the ferocity of snowball fights and splashing in summer puddles. Bless your bare feet. Ceaseless laughter and stolen kisses (you always taken them back).

You can't see her, the oaks hide her too well, but in the intoxication of her escape, she left tattle tale tansies in her wake. You follow the the golden flowers one, two, got you- a shift of gold flaps in the corner of your eye, there is a hand on your shoulder.

You turn.

...

You hover in the rafters of the Great Western Hall, watching the barely controlled chaos of early December descend upon the yetis like a tsunami of tinsel, toys, and the manic cheer of high octane sugar rush. You suck on a stolen candy cane, licking only the peppermint strip in a fit of artist boredom. You off-handily reorganize your list of tricks for after the New Year - never before, you aren't so foolish or selfish to harm Christmas, it is no fun to ruin someone's else game or hard work (you couldn't stand to see disappointment in those green eyes).

Still, the North Pole is a good place to stop your travels. The pair of you travel windswept across the globe, though lately the high halls of Santoff Claussen hold you (or to be truthfully, the hidden meadows under the glacier sheet, your charms have nothing on baby reindeer right now). You watch the production of wrapping with a lazy grin when the tiny troupe of elves catches your eye.

Or more actually the apple pie they are trying to carry.

You flip down straight in front of Phil. You stop the thundercloud from forming on his fine furry face by deliberately pointing at the retreating elves with the pie and flickering a finger between you. You can't understand a word of yeti, but bribery is a language all its own. Phip guffs and gives you a nod. You smile and wander over to the kitchen.

Apparently much could be forgiven with warm pie (or piemakers, you know they would never let you in the front door without her even if you did never bother to try and knock and ask first).

You can smell the cinnamon in the air. You turn left towards to the stairs to the kitchens and strangely, a butterfly drifts across your vision, you swing out a hand towards it--

there is a hand on your shoulder you turn.

....

You are amazingly adapt at braids.

Your fingers dance through through her hair, pulling the golden strands tight and the sweet nape of her neck (braid first then kisses you remind yourself). You delve her hair into three even strands, weaving them over, under, through, over under, through- then she gives the littlest sigh and your bones stiffen still. You knot the unfinished braid in your left hand and swept out your right around her waist, to pull her back tight against you; you need to kiss your golden girl, your blazing bright girl, you choke out her name Rapun-

there hand on your shoulder.

....

you turn and you kiss her you feel the weight of your name on her lips the shiver of frisson and fear and ferocity of love ripping through her exhale it is not enough it is not enough it is not--

(let go jack now)

 

...

You feel a hand on your shoulder, and you turn.

...

It is cold and dark and you are afraid. 

You reach out blindly for someone to take your hand, but there is no one there (shouldn't someone be there?) A golden butterfly darts out into the darkness and you come to a stand still. You watch in amazement as another butterfly skips in its trail, then another and another and another until a river of fluttering gold swarms around you dividing the dark in twain like a braid of sunlight, blazing bright.

"Why is it so dark?" you ask.

"In the beginning it is always dark," said the woman beside you.

"Or is it always dark at the end? Well, frankly you lose count after awhile, but you, Jack Frost, have given me no end of trouble, not that is any surprise or will be any surprise. Oh, I wish Gallifreyan was easier to translate. No other language gets the tenses quite right. I am letting Máni deal with you this time or the wolf can eat him for all I care. Frankly, I don't have the time or energy to deal with you, not when I have Pangaea to reconfigure."

She stops and pinches the bridge of her nose before letting out a long sigh. It strikes you as a sad sound, a tired noise, like the clime of a glass before it shatters. "For what it's worth, I am sorry, Jack."

All you can do is ask why, but the question only makes her laugh.

You take a step back. No laugh should shudder out of a person like that.

The butterfly swarm has become thicker, blocking out the dark entirely. You can't feel the difference between your own heartbeat and the thrum of the millions of golden butterflies around you.

"Time to wake up, Jack."

There is a hand on your shoulder, and you turn--

 

You manage to not completely fall out of the tree, but only because your staff hooked on to a lower branch and swung you right into the trunk.

The last glint of sunset flares off in the distance, catching your eye as you push off the birch. You feel a knot beneath your breastbone, but you can't figure why and chalk it off to the pastries you stole earlier, but you figure you can work it off- maybe a few snowstorms off Sweden, Germany, or Corona instead of sweeping straight into Russia.

You leap into the air, calling the wind to take you away.

**Author's Note:**

> So this Ragnarök and the reason why the differences between movie verse, book verse, and my verse exist. Reality is squeezable and not everything or everyone survives. Also why most kiddies grow up and forget the Guardians- sheer survival, human disbelief wards off worse things than the Bogeyman. Seraphina and the Man in the Moon are a few of the people aware of the changes but not sane by any standard set by Freud.
> 
> So is it less or more depressing that Jack was not alone for three centuries but had a lover and companion who he just happen to forget when the world reset?
> 
> References:
> 
> 'neve, neve'- snow, snow according to Google Italian 
> 
> ora e per sempre- always and forever in Google Italian 
> 
> krummholz- is a particular feature of subarctic and subalpine tree line landscapes. Continual exposure to fierce, freezing winds causes vegetation to become stunted and deformed. 
> 
> Mole Antonelliana- a major landmark building in Turin, Italy. 
> 
> baby reindeer- born in June, first flight is in December, very cute, very painful, they really love Rapunzel (and the yetis even more because they lose less fur with her around.)
> 
> apple pie- pie always works as a bribe, gift, or apology.
> 
> amazingly adapt at braids- Jack was the best big brother in the world, of course he is an expert braider.
> 
> golden butterfly- butterfly of doom, butterfly of life, death, and rebirth, always around Seraphina and what Pitch dreams of when he has good dreams.
> 
> In the beginning it is always dark- 80s movie reference
> 
> Gallifreyan- Doctor Who
> 
> Máni- Norse god of the moon where we get the Western idea of a Man in the Moon, called Manny by North. Guy gets eaten by a wolf during end of the world. Not that I am saying that's what happen. 
> 
> Corona- the kingdom of Tangled exists


End file.
